The Petition
by Ghurlag
Summary: Hey, I know i've been gone a while, but this is one of the many reasons. The Silver Skulls chapter were developed by a bunch of us over on BL forums, and this is my story regarding them. Hope you enjoy it.
1. Part 1: A Greeting

**Part 1: A Greeting  
**_"From the stars, the hero descended,  
Clad in silver, he came to rest in the Mountain of Skulls"_

_  
– _From "Silent Saviour", a Varsavian poem.

Laktaq checked his power-armour for blemishes as the shuttle quaked with the final stages of re-entry. Satisfied that there would be no scratch or smudge to mar its surface and embarrass him, he straightened up and tried to calm himself.  
He wasn't quite sure _why_ he was so nervous and excited. Certainly the prospect of joining his new Chapter was something that evoked alternate spurts of delight and foreboding, but he had overcome most of that shortly after Sergeant Kyaerus had given him the news, four months ago. He suspected that he was simply anxious to get a look at the Chapter's fortress-monastery, and Varsavia itself.

It was an odd feeling, to know of a planet you had spent your whole childhood on only through the tales told by others. But the initiation and indoctrination programmes were as harsh on your memories as they were on your body, and his stint on Varsavia with the 10th had been all too brief.

He remembered some images, though. Snow settling across a harsh and beautiful landscape, a herd of elk treading carefully over lichen-covered rocks, a starlit sky blazing with constellations...

He twitched. The shuttle was approaching the ground now – his training allowed him to identify the distinct engine-throttle as the pilot began to level out the craft. Time to make sure he was ready to meet his new Captain. As the landing-boosters fired, he checked one final time that his chainsword was securely attached at his belt, and picked up his boltgun, slinging it into the 'at-ease' position he had been taught to adopt when he was in friendly territory, and marvelling once more at the responsiveness of his armour.

No matter how many times you had it explained to you, you always secretly expected the power-armour of a full battle-brother to be more restrictive than the lighter-looking carapace armour worn by scouts. Laktaq had been pleasantly surprised to find that the opposite was true – his bulky silver armour felt like a glove, even allowing him to feel the texture of his bolter's grip through his gauntlets.

There was a crunch, and a sudden jarring sensation. The shuttle had touched down. He stood still, controlling the urge to fidget, as the ramp descended, then slowly made his way down it, into the light.

His optics adjusted automatically to the glare, and he found himself stood in the middle of what, but for the surrounding walls and turret emplacements, he would have called a snowfield. Glancing down, he saw that the area around the shuttle was free of the white blanket, and instead a mixture of slush and water lay over the rockcrete floor, where the landing boosters had melted their mark during the touchdown.

Two figures were approaching from across the field of snow, having emerged from a squat grey building at the far side. He waited, uncertainly. Was it impolite to remain here and have the greeting party walk the whole way to greet him? He took a few steps forward, and stopped, feeling a fool. They were nearly here, anyway.

"Greetings," said the first figure, an impressive-looking figure bedecked in similarly impressive armour. Purity seals hung from its pitted surface, and two skulls were affixed to the pauldrons by spikes, one monstrosity undoubtedly the hefty skull of an Ork, the other seeming human, perhaps Astartes. However, what drew Laktaq's eyes most was the intricate tattoo on the Astartes' forehead. A blaze of fire surrounded a single powerful figure, who held a snake in one hand as another snake, growing from his right arm, devoured it. Behind this, a skull lay shattered. Laktaq couldn't help but shiver. On closer inspection, the skull was actually the symbol of the Silver Skulls.

"I am Captain Amarok," said the marine. "This is Brother-Sergeant Aumanil." He indicated the second figure, who seemed unusually tall to Laktaq, but perhaps this was accentuated by his somewhat slender build. Just as Amarok's intricate tattoo had alarmed him, so too was Aumanil's lack of them a surprise. Five service studs dotted his shaved head, which, from what Laktaq remembered of the conventions of other Astartes, meant that Aumanil had been with the Skulls for over two-and-a-half centuries. Then again, Veteran-Sergeant Atellus went untattooed, so perhaps it was not so unusual.

"Welcome to Varsavia," said Aumanil, his dark grey eyes scanning Laktaq, as if searching for something.

"And welcome to 3rd Company," continued Amarok. Laktaq was about to thank him, when he caught himself, and bowed instead, turning to do the same to Aumanil. Sergeant Atellus often allowed even untattooed Scouts to speak in his presence, as co-ordination was needed for effective training, but these marines were unlikely to be so tolerant. His position at the moment was an issue of confusion for him. Was he a full battle-brother of 3rd, capable of speaking unasked? He did wear the armour of a full Astartes, now, and had claimed his head. Or did his unmarked skin still prevent him from speaking to his superiors? His rapid progression to 3rd had prevented him first seeing the Cruor to have his achievement marked in ink. It was best to err on the side of caution, and remain silent until asked. Amarok and Aumanil did not seem surprised by his silence, so perhaps he had chosen wisely.

"Aumanil will see you to your new squad," said Amarok, glancing up as the serf that had piloted Laktaq's shuttle began unloading crates. Aumanil nodded, a curious expression crossing his face.  
"Follow me," he instructed, turning to walk back the way the two had come. Laktaq hurried after him.

"You may speak in front of me, Brother," said Aumanil as they reached the doorway. "I am not worthy of your silence."

Laktaq was dumbfounded by the statement, but took up the offer. "Not worthy, Brother-Sergeant?" He asked, as they entered through the gothic arch, and began to walk down a dark corridor. Aumanil sighed.

"Nevermind."

He glanced at Laktaq. "What is your name, brother?"

"Laktaq," Laktaq replied.

"Well, Laktaq, you may ask me any questions you like. I have no doubt you are curious about many things"

He was right there. A couple of questions had been bubbling through his mind.

"Where are we? Is this the monastery?"

Aumanil shook his head.

"This is a tunnel, leading from the landing-pad you arrived on to the rear of the monastery. It cuts down through a sheer cliff, which protects our landing-pad from the roaming tribes and predators. The tunnel comes out in the rear of our revered monastery."

Laktaq nodded, noticing that the corridor had indeed begun to stoop downwards, and was longer than the squat building he had seen would permit. Ornate twisting stonework dotted the walls and ceiling.

"Which squad am I to be joining? Am I a full battle-brother?"

"You are to join Squad Dabaan," replied Aumanil steadily. "I believe Sergeant Dabaan wishes to evaluate your abilities before permitting you to see the Cruor and gain your mark. I will allow him to explain this."

That seemed fair. These marines would only know of his abilities from the reports Atellus had written on him. It was to be expected that they would want to see first-hand how capable he was. Laktaq fell silent. There was only one question remaining in his head, and he was hesitant to ask it. Aumanil looked at him.

"There is something further," he stated, reading Laktaq like his thoughts were tattooed across his fface. "Ask it."

Laktaq shrugged. "I could not help but wonder," he said, apologetically. "The tattoo on the Captain's forehead – what does it mean?"

Aumanil's face looked grim in the darkness, and Laktaq wondered if the Sergeant might not answer. Had he unknowingly broken some taboo? But then the grim face shifted.

"It is my Captain's doom," Aumanil said, a gloomy note settling in his voice. "And perhaps that of us all. It troubles him, and the reading attached to it keeps us bound here, rarely able to strike at our Emperor's foes directly."

Laktaq was intrigued. "What-"

"-I think that may be enough questions for the moment," the Sergeant interrupted, obviously troubled by what he had been forced to speak of.

"Of course," said Laktaq, retreating into silence.

They continued through the gloomy tunnel with no further exchanges, eventually emerging into some kind of hallway. The decorations seemed more ornate, and the hallway built to a different scale to that of the tunnel. Skulls of all races lined the walls, some preserved in the silver metal common to the Chapter's trophies, others left in plain bone, and yet others apparently crafted from stone, perhaps to hold the place of trophies long-since damaged. Undoubtedly, they were now in the monastery itself.

Aumanil appeared to have a destination in mind, and as he led Laktaq through the skull-lined corridors, the new recruit began to get a sense of just how vast the building was. The corridors were a twisting maze that would be a nightmare for intruders to navigate, and where he saw doors and entrances – including, in one case, a downward-leading staircase marked 'Librarium' – they were barred and in some cases guarded.

The biggest marvel yet came, however, when they reached Aumanil's destination. It was an entrance hall like no other Laktaq had seen. Glorious arches passed overhead, and light somehow played from above, despite there being no windows that Laktaq could see. A whole company could easily form up in this space. Perhaps that was what it was intended for.

A lone figure awaited them by the doors. As they walked to him, Laktaq examined the doorway. The thick stonework was riddled with odd runes, and at its apex, a silvered skull was mounted, surrounded by jewels. Was that a trophy being proudly displayed, or a hero's head watching over them?

"Dabaan," said Aumanil formally, as they approached the figure. The squad sergeant was in full power-armour, aside from his helmet, which hung from his belt alongside a pair of Ork skulls, revealing the swirling tattoo-marks on his face and his blonde, short-cropped hair.

"Aumanil," replied Dabaan, nodding his head slightly in what might have been a bow.

"This is Laktaq," said Aumanil, gesturing at him. Laktaq bowed to the sergeant. He might have been imagining it, but it seemed like there was some frost in Aumanil's voice that hadn't been there before. Was that directed at him, or at Dabaan?

"If you'll excuse me," Aumanil continued, "I have other business to attend to." Dabaan nodded again, and Aumanil turned and walked off. Dabaan watched him out of sight, then turned his gaze on Laktaq. He seemed amiable enough, but Laktaq wasn't going to risk speaking out of turn, so he simply waited and accepted the scrutiny.

"Laktaq, eh?" He said, reaching for his helmet. "Well, I have no doubt you're eager to report to the Cruor and claim your tattoo, Laktaq, but before you do, there is a certain trial I want to see you pass. Affix your helmet."

Laktaq nodded and did so, sealing the clasps and listening to the hiss as the pressure equalised. Across from him, Dabaan did the same.

"Just follow me," Dabaan's voice crackled across a private vox-link. "And I'll explain what you have to do."

On that note, he turned and passed his hand over some unseen device in the rock. The great doors creaked open and, his eyes adjusting once again to the bright glare of light off snow, Laktaq followed Dabaan outside. Varsavia and an unknown trial awaited.


	2. Part 2: Skull of a Hero

**Part 2: Skull of a Hero  
**_"To curry favour with the gods, gift them the skull of a true hero."  
_

- A saying amongst the southern Varsavian tribes.

As the great doors creaked shut behind him once more, Laktaq took in the beauty that was Varsavia. All around him jagged rocks jutted out from beneath snowdrifts, as if the hard earth beneath had thrust daggers through the cold shroud that kept it from the weak sun. The sky was an odd almost-blue, the kind of colour that most planets saw at daybreak or sunset, yet the sun was almost directly overhead. The temperature sensors on Laktaq's armour told him that whatever heat it bathed the planet in was minimal at best. Varsavia was bitterly cold.

Whilst the monastery lay in somewhat more bumpy land, Laktaq could see that, further out, the geography settled down into inhospitable-looking white plains. He moved forward, to stand closer to Sergeant Dabaan.

"Good thing you arrived during the summer," said Dabaan as he approached, "what with the darkness and the blizzards, you're hard-pressed to get a good look at the monastery during the winter."

As he spoke, he pointed dismissively in the direction they had come. Laktaq turned, and was momentarily stunned. He had acquired a sense of the monastery's scale from his glimpses of its innards, but that did not prepare him for what he saw now. A towering, dark structure, the monastery's dark rockcrete tore from the face of a sheer cliff like the gauntlet of some gargantuan creature from beneath the earth. Spiked crenellations rose from it, and the thick heavy walls were carved with gothic imagery, even where the heavy gun emplacements loomed. Twisting patterns, giant gun-barrels, deep-set skulls... It was too much to take in at once, even for Laktaq's enhanced vision and conditioned memory abilities.

He turned to Dabaan, but saw that the Sergeant was still facing away from the monastery. He appeared to be staring down a beaten path that led down from the monastery gates, through an overhang.

"Must've been spooked by the shuttle," he muttered over the vox. Laktaq wasn't sure if he was meant to understand that, or if Dabaan had inadvertently broadcast something he had been saying to himself. Silence was, as usual, the best policy. He opted to fix his gaze on the path beneath the overhang, like Dabaan was doing.

A few minutes passed, and Laktaq saw a small figure appear on the path. The figure – a short human, by the looks of it – paused as it caught sight of them , then disappeared again. Dabaan said nothing, but he couldn't have missed it. More long minutes passed. Laktaq could feel the harsh wind howling around them. Eventually, he saw a crowd of dark figures appear where the other one had stood before.

"Finally," said Dabaan. His helmet swivelled in Laktaq's direction. "Stay as immobile as possible, recruit. The natives can scare easily, and we may need them around for your trial." He turned his head back.

"Oh, and you may speak, recruit – this will be simpler if you can ask questions."

Laktaq didn't quite know where to start.

"Well.. ah –" he began, flashing through the possibilities, "-who are these people?"

"Varsavians," came the reply, a hint of scorn in Dabaan's voice. "Who else?"

"What are they doing here?" Laktaq asked, moving quickly to cover his embarrassment.

There was a movement from Dabaan that might have been a shrug.

"Sometimes they come bringing initiates, sometimes they bring us skulls, sometimes they simply come to look, and go away again. I suspect this party has a skull for us."

Laktaq took this in, watching the fur-wrapped humans as they struggled up the snow-covered path.

"Why do they bring us skulls?" he asked. Another almost-shrug.

"Who knows? I guess they think we like them to. Sometimes they bring us the skulls of their enemies, sometimes a son will bring us his father's skull. A lot of the time, the skulls hold a petition."

"A petition?" queried Laktaq, tearing his gaze from the approaching party.

"You'll see," Dabaan replied.

The Varsavians drew closer. There were roughly a dozen of them. Not surprisingly, they looked apprehensive about being in such close proximity to the Silver Skulls. It was difficult to imagine what the two Astartes looked like to them, framed as they were against the imposing backdrop of the monastery.

The group stood staring at Laktaq and Dabaan, suspicious tattooed faces peering out from beneath layers of animal hides. A couple of the Varsavians appeared to be bowing reverently, but then again, that might just be a response to the cold wind.

One of the group cautiously stepped forwards, almost prostrating himself as he came within reach. He placed something on the ground before them, and then hurriedly backed off. Laktaq glanced down. It was a skull, a plain piece of human bone which seemed almost yellow against the pure white of the snow. Dabaan bent to pick it up, his movement provoking an audible intake of breath from the Varsavian party. The skull was raised to helmet-height.

"As I hoped," said Dabaan over the vox-link, "it's a petition."

Considering that his permission to speak still stood, Laktaq pressed his earlier question.

"The natives bring us petitions?" he asked, his eye passing over the nervous-looking group.

"More like prayers, half the time," responded Dabaan. "It's not too uncommon."

"And we answer their prayers?"

Dabaan did his half-shrug thing once again.

"Sometimes. It's not really our business to babysit them." He was turning the skull over in his hands. "I like to see how new members of my squad perform in the field, and this is usually the simplest way to keep the trials fresh. Now, where is the- ah!"

He pulled something out of the skull's eye-socket. It was a rolled-up scrap of leather hide. He tossed it to Laktaq, who caught it, surprised.

"Unroll it," Dabaan instructed, tossing the skull onto a pile of what Laktaq had until now assumed to be loose scree, but on closer inspection now appeared to be a collection of discarded human skulls. The Varsavians seemed less than happy with this treatment of their offering, but one, their leader, jabbered at them swiftly, and they kept their muttering low.

How many petitions? Laktaq wondered, as he unrolled the leather scrap. How many desperate petitions went ignored? On the inside of the roll, the oddly familiar twisting script of one of the common Varsavian languages spelled out a message in faded dark-sap ink. It struck Laktaq that the markings looked somewhat similar to the tattoos on the faces of the petitioners.

"What does it say, lad?" Voxed Dabaan impatiently. Laktaq regarded the message. He wondered how much of the script he would have understood before he had undergone his initiation. Was the basic understanding he had picked up off his fellow initiates inferior to that he would have previously possessed? So much of the transformation from human to Astartes was a confused blur of pain. He couldn't truthfully say how much of what he knew had been conditioned into him.

"Deliver us from the Non-Men" he replied. He paused, racking his brain. "Who are the Non-Men?" Laktaq asked, glancing at Dabaan's expressionless helm as if for hints.

"Probably just another tribe that's been bothering them," the sergeant replied dismissively. "That doesn't sound too bad. When my sergeant gave me a petition to answer, I ended up tracking a Vanhulf spider for three weeks. Damned thing had wiped out most of an elk herd. Beauty, it was." He paused. "Not that that's the worst petition I've seen. Brother Brukha had to round up an elk-herd that'd escaped a tribe."

Laktaq raised an eyebrow inside his helmet. That didn't sound like an appropriate request for an Astartes to be responding to.

"It was a difficult task," said Dabaan, as if sensing the silent criticism, "They are not the easiest of beasts to corral. And whatever the task, a recruit must prove himself capable. The Emperor asks strange things, at times."

"So I must slay these Non-Men?" Laktaq asked.

"If that is what it takes," replied Dabaan. "You must answer the petition in full. I will accompany you to evaluate your performance, but you should expect no aid from me."

Laktaq nodded.

"Keep your helmet on at all times," Dabaan continued. "It does us good to remain as gods among the natives. You are not to speak with them unless necessary, as their aid should be as limited as my own."

"I understand," Laktaq replied. He wasn't likely to be exposing his skin to the harsh cold of the Varsavian

"Very well," said Dabaan. His helmet swivelled as he fixed his gaze on the Varsavian petitioners.

"Thou shalt guide us to the Non-Men," he boomed, switching to the common Varsavian tongue as swiftly as he switched to external broadcast. "The Skull-Warriors shall cast them down in glorious battle."

The group began to babble amongst themselves excitedly. No doubt this was the response they had been hoping for. Laktaq wondered if they realised how lucky they were to be blessed with a response. If he had not just arrived, it seemed likely that they would simply have been left to deal with their plight alone. Which he could understand. Tribal squabbles were hardly the concern of the Emperor's most glorious warriors.

The young male who had brought the skull forward finally managed to quell the excited chatter. He bowed deeply to Dabaan and then Laktaq.

"We lead," he said, in a fractured, guttural accent. "You follow to the Non-Men. Many praises to the Skull-Warriors!"

He waved at the group around him, and they began to scramble down the way they had come. He glanced back at the Skulls awkwardly. Laktaq looked at Dabaan. Was he to go, or wait for Dabaan to take the lead.

"You should follow," prompted Dabaan, once more demonstrating an unnerving ability to read his mood. "I will be following you and observing, not leading you. You are to treat this as if you were alone. Consider that your last piece of advice."

"Understood," said Laktaq, turning to stalk after the Varsavians, who were picking up their pace. A few minutes later heard a crunching sound as Sergeant Dabaan began to follow. Out, away from the monastery they walked. So this was his trial, then. He was headed out into the wild, cold lands of Varsavia, with the Sergeant's watchful eyes on his back, to slay the Non-Men – whoever they were – and reinforce his Chapter's reputation as godlike protectors. It could be worse.


	3. Part 3: NonMen

**Part 3: Non-Men**

"_The Saviour strode mightily across the wastes, _

_and no beast could break his silver skin,_

_no creature could withstand his strong arm,_

_bone did break, flesh did tear, and men did quail_

_when the Silent Saviour came."_

_-_From "Silent Saviour", a Varsavian poem

Snowflakes clung to Laktaq's armoured form as he stood immobile in the centre of the temporary camp. The three shelters around him were quickly becoming indistinct white blobs as the snow piled on the interwoven branches and hides. It was a good thing that this was summer. Summer snow was a cause for celebration, as it meant the temperature had risen, and shelters could be built in gullies like this with less danger of a drift building up. Winter snow... Winter snow was much worse.

He had to admit, he was grudgingly impressed with the tribesmen so far. They were Ilvenki, so far as he could tell. One of the most prominent northern tribes, and a hardy people. True, their slow pace across the rough terrain was somewhat of an irritant, but they did not have the advantages of power-armour to shield them from the elements, nor a genetically enhanced body to carry them. It seemed that the pace was a ferocious one to them, yet something was driving them to make this sacrifice, and they bore it without complaint.

They had been boasting earlier, sat around the fire, of how quickly they had brought the Skull-Warrior to their land. It seemed that it had taken them five weeks to reach the monastery, and now they neared their return destination in just three more. Laktaq was not overly impressed. He could've made the whole journey in a week and a half, if that. Then again, he did not need to stop for sleep.

The petitioners certainly seemed in a hurry to deliver him to the Non-Men, though. From what he could gather from their fireside tales, the tribe had been troubled by the fiends for some time now. The exact nature of their foe, Laktaq could not divine, which was irritating. He would have simply asked, but Sergeant Dabaan's watchful eye was ever on his back, and he was loathe to show any sign of weakness during his assessment.

The Sergeant had stayed roughly 200 yards behind Laktaq and the Ilvenki throughout much of the journey, coming forward only once and briefly, to ask the humans' leader about the length of the journey. If the petitioners had ever wondered about the Skulls' odd behaviour aloud then they had muttered it so quietly that even Laktaq's enhanced hearing couldn't pick it up. They cast him odd glances, though, as he strode alongside them. How must he look? A tireless automaton, striding through or over the most impassible terrain without pause, faceless and silent, never sleeping or eating. They had never attempted to praise his endurance, or showed any surprise at it. Perhaps they had never even attempted to consider him on a mortal level. Which was probably for the best. He was an Angel amongst men, after all.

He followed a drifting snowflake as it fluttered through the air and settled on one of the shelters. There were probably at least four men inside, huddled together for warmth, their travelling furs and packs built into the shelter itself as added protection against the cold. He tracked his sight back out to the desolate plains. At this time of year, further south, he could just about remember Varsavia showing some signs of life – gushing rivers, rare winter blooms – but no such delights were to be found here, within the far northern circle. Only the occasional low-topped dense forests, where the boughs of hardy trees stretched above the lairs of dark creatures, whose calls even now filtered through the night.

Idly, Laktaq switched his helm's vision enhancements to infra-red, to see if it would allow him penetrate the swirling gloom any better. Instantly, the night was lit up, allowing him to make out the almost-gleaming armoured figure of Sergeant Dabaan, stood immobile at his usual distance, his helmet fixated on Laktaq and the camp.

Laktaq wondered how he had was faring so far. Had Dabaan found any flaws with his performance thus far? It wasn't as if there had been anything he could have failed at. All they had done was walk and wait. No, he got the feeling that-

Hold on.

Dabaan's helmet had twitched. Was he still looking at Laktaq?

He turned. There was something moving out there, close to the ground. Wolves? No, they rarely approached men, especially in the summer months, when there was much easier game afoot. Whatever those things were out there were, they were moving too close to the ground to be a wolf pack. And there were many of them, he was sure of that. Ahklut?

Best to warn the Ilvenki, then. He switched on his external vox-casters and adjusted the volume.

"Danger," he blared, remembering at the last moment to use Ilvenki rather than Gothic. He would've elaborated, but it was probably simpler to leave it as a general alarm, until he actually knew what the threat was. There was rustling within one of the shelters. He frowned. Oh yes, the men were not Astartes, who would snap awake in an instant.

"Danger," he repeated, and left it at that. A short jog took him out away from the shelter towards the approaching shapes. He could see them better now, they were halting at his approach, scuttling sideways. White fur, it seemed. Four limbs, though a couple of the specimens looked to deviate from that norm. About the size of a crouched man. In fact...

One of the creatures raised its head and screeched. The snarling features were distorted beyond belief, but they were still recognisably human. Or at least, had once been. What in the name of the Emperor was this?

"Non-Men!"

The Ilvenki were out of their shelters, their breath freezing in the cold wind. A couple of them were near-naked, and Laktaq did not envy their exposure. They were moving fast, forming up into a tight circle. Spears and ivory hunting knives were appearing from somewhere. Non-Men? Laktaq regarded the sub-human creatures critically. So these things were the threat he was here to face. He drew his chainsword unhurriedly. He could easily blast the creatures from here with his bolter, but that didn't seem to be an honourable form of engagement. They seemed reluctant to get close to him, though – they were sidling around him, trying to get at the knot of men in the centre of the camp. He strode towards them, thumbing the activation rune on his chainsword and feeling the familiar hum as it whirred up to speed. They backed away, walking crabwise and hissing, bulbous eyes glaring at him hatefully. How could such mutations have come to exist on the surface of Varsavia? Sure, the planet had always held the Ahklut, but mutants? Hellspawned monstrosities appearing here?

Without warning, one of them sprung. Laktaq was caught off-guard by the sudden lunge, and the snarling beast scraped its claws down his armoured torso. In an automatic response, he brought his chainsword up into the creature's side, the whirring blade splattering the snow with dark droplets of blood. Something snapped inside the beast and it yowled in anguish, collapsing away from him. Unfortunately for the beast, the angle of its fall brought the chainsword even further up into its chest. Something vital was severed, and the twisted creature practically flopped to the ground as Laktaq withdrew his blade.

He snapped his head up. Time to be alert: the other mutations had been surging forward while he was distracted, and they were practically surrounding him now.

He blessed one of them with a fatal gash across the head, and stamped on the spine of another. A third beast – with an unidentified fifth limb – leapt to grapple with his sword-arm, and he was mildly surprised to discover that the creature was at least twice as strong as a common man, capable of at least pinning his gauntleted arm. However, he was still much stronger, as the thunderbolt blow he delivered to its face demonstrated aptly enough. Warp-born mutations were no match for a warrior born of Guilliman's own geneseed.

A yell from behind. One of the Non-Men had reached the circle of Ilvenki, and was lashing out at them with a dangerous-looking clawed limb. For their part, they were jabbing at the creature with their spears, attempting to wound it while staying out of the reach of the mace-like appendage.

Right. He could not allow his guides to be killed or injured, or this quest could be delayed who-knew-how-long.

Batting aside the next springing mutant with his elbow, he drew the bolt-pistol from his belt and fired, his training and conditioning having allowed him to automatically lock on to his target. The beast's chest was pulverised as the explosive round shredded it. There were squeals of fear from the Non-Men, and yelps from the gore-drenched Ilvenki. The retort as the bolt fired seemed to act as a closing bell for the battle; the Non-Men fled like rats into the night, leaving only their corpses as proof of the engagement.

As he strode back to the cowering Ilvenki, Laktaq caught sight of Dabaan distantly throttling one of the white-backed mutations, steel fingers clasped like a vice around its throat as he held it scant inches off the ground. Evidently one of the fleeing beasts had attempted to lash out at something in its panicked retreat, and had unwisely chosen the sergeant for this purpose.

"They are mutants," voxed Dabaan, his voice flat. "I had not forseen this."

Laktaq wasn't sure if he should respond, so instead he did the next best thing and clicked his vox twice. An idea had struck him.

"Do not be alarmed," he instructed as he approached the nervous-looking guides. Obviously they were not overly familiar with Imperial technology. Emperor alone knew what they had made of the bolter round. They visibly flinched as he drew within arms-length, but held their ground.

"I need you to be calm," he said, glancing up at Dabaan, who appeared to be inspecting his now-deceased assailant with a clinical curiosity.

"I need-" he paused, and opened the channel so Dabaan could hear everything he could. Best to be as helpful as possible, if Dabaan was as concerned with the mutants as he was. "_We_ need to hear all you know about these Non-Men," he said. "Now."


	4. Part 4: Fires in the Snow

**Part 4: Fires in the Snow**

"_Emerald star torn from the sky,_

_Wicked whim of daemon's eye,_

_Our soil burns with tainted glow,_

_There will be fires in the snow."_

- Transcript of a dream-verse by Prognosticator Tornarsuk

Laktaq didn't know quite what to make of what was before him. The training regimen Sergeant Atellus put his scouts through was extensive, to be sure, but he'd only acquired a passing familiarity with handling orbital strikes and atomics. Not surprising, considering that it was unlikely that he'd face one and survive, or be asked to direct one. Nonetheless, what he was facing now looked more like the radioactive atomic crater Sergeant Kyaerus had dragged them through on Myrennidos than a Varsavian forest.

That is, apart from the tree-trunks.

It was without a doubt one of the most eerie sights he had yet encountered. For the past mile, he had been walking over ground that conformed precisely with his expectations of a landscape that had suffered a calamitous impact. Snowdrifts piling up in fresh white scars on the ground, ice-packs shattered, rocks and branches strewn everywhere. That sort of thing conformed with his understanding of what the Ilvenki had described. But this...

The ground in this area looked as pummelled as any of the rest of it, but the trees still stood. They were stripped of all their foliage, and looked for all the world like a few thousand fire-hardened stakes driven into the torn Varsavian earth. It was baffling. Had he reached the edge of the blast zone, then?

Laktaq checked the feedback his armour's sensors were providing. The radiation levels had been climbing steadily as he advanced: now they were higher than ever. No, if anything, he was reaching the centre of the blast zone. He glanced around. Yes, the pattern of the fallen trees further back supported that theory. So if this was the centre of the blast, why did the trees still stand?

He recalled the story the Ilvenki guides had related to him. The same memory techniques that had instilled battle-litanies so deeply into his mind allowed him to recall the tribesmen's superstitious tale word-for-word. He perused it mentally. Yes, the light in the sky, the falling star, the 'shaking of the earth'. All that pointed to some kind of meteor impact, but what of the trees? The Ilvenki had mentioned a 'new land, of skeletal spines' where the Non-Men were supposed to dwell. Was this stripped forest what they had referred to? It was somewhat difficult to separate the facts from the superstitious nonsense.

The tribesmen seemed to be of the opinion that the falling star had created some kind of new dread realm, and that the Non-Men were the demon inhabitants of said realm. Laktaq had other suspicions, but he had kept them to himself. The tribespeople did not need to know that the demons which plagued them had once been men like them. At any rate, he could hardly blame them. This eerie graveyard of trees was something he was having trouble explaining. Surely the trees closest to the blast would have been toppled, like those further away?

His vox clicked, startling him.

"I have received a transmission," said Dabaan. Laktaq turned around. The Sergeant was stood at his usual distance, a couple of hundred yards back, amidst a scree of toppled trees and jagged stumps.

"I am loathe to offer you further direction than that I have already given," he said, his tone stern, "but given the unsuspectedly unusual nature of your trial, and the inherent corruption that may be posed to our sacred home-soil, and given the source of this transmission..." He trailed off.

"Prognosticator Tornarsuk has predicted a danger in our path," he announced, evidently cutting to the heart of the matter. "He tells me there is a taint here on Varsavia sufficient enough to draw some portion of the attentions of the Immortal Emperor. 3rd Company would deploy to react to this threat, were we not already responding to it. As it is, a squad is being prepared to react, should you fail to dispatch the Non-Men."

Laktaq was somewhat surprised by the news. The Company Prognosticator had rattled the skulls over this trivial a matter?

"Sir, may I speak?" he asked.

"Go ahead, lad."

"Why are these mutations, these... Non-Men of such importance, sir? The mutant must be purged, I know, but I am surely capable of that – it hardly demands a full squad, or the Oracle's attention, to deal with these beasts."

Laktaq wondered if he sounded overly confident. But it was true. The Non-Men might seem threatening to Varsavia's primitive inhabitants, but the tribesmen that had guided him had remained at their camp, a good few miles away, and Laktaq had no reason to believe the mutant creatures posed a serious threat to him himself. He was a Space Marine, after all. A Silver Skull, no less. He had slain five of the abominations in the short engagement at the camp two days ago, and had received only a minor scratch in his armour's paintwork to show for it. And even that would not occur the next time he faced them. Not if he got a line with his bolter.

"Oracle Tornarsuk seems to believe they represent some greater threat," Dabaan replied. "I would not question the word of the Prognosticator. At any rate, this area needs purifying, and that is a task we cannot accomplish alone, even if you do complete your trial successfully."

Laktaq lowered his head in deference to the distant Sergeant, and then realised how odd that must look.

"Understood, sir" he voxed.

"Very well. I believe it would be best for you to return to your task."

Laktaq clicked his vox twice to signal compliance, and turned back to the forest of fire-stripped posts. Onward, then.

A few minutes later, Laktaq came to realise that the forest was no less tight and restrictive for its lack of foliage. There was something odd in the atmosphere, and he didn't just mean the radioactive agents that his armour was warning him of. Perhaps it was the grim atmosphere the charred trees were exuding. On an impulse, he turned to the nearest tree and smashed his fist into it. Dry splinters sprayed out and the tree creaked ominously. As he had thought. The tree was dead. Yet so far as he could tell, the root system was intact, and the tree had made no attempt at re-growing its stripped limbs. It took him a moment to puzzle it out. The radiation. Whatever vile substance the 'falling star' had delivered on impact had poisoned the very ground here, killing the trees from the inside.

He took some time to examine the ground as he moved further into the forest, attempting to discover any trace of the radioactive agents. The broken earth was layered with fresh snowfall, but even when he purposefully shifted it, he couldn't find anything that would indicate a meteor-strike had occurred here. He wasn't even sure what he was expecting. Glowing rocks?

Movement ahead reminded him that his task was not to puzzle out the cause of these strange events, merely to deal with the results. He raised his bolter and stalked forward, trying to pick out whatever it was he had seen before.

A flash of white fur to the right had him stepping sideways into another avenue of trees. There it was, circling towards him. He raised his bolter and then paused. This creature did not resemble the Non-Men. The ones he had seen at the camp had possessed various mutations, but this creature looked radically different. It stood on tall, rickety legs, and spewed strangely fanged tentacles from both ends of its furred body. Its head was lost within one of the writhing entanglements, but two pronged horns emerged from within. The creature appeared to be aware of him, but Laktaq couldn't see how.

A flurry of snow announced that the creature was beginning to charge. Laktaq sneered inside his helm, and squeezed the trigger on his bolter. Three plumes of gore rose from the charging beast, and it collapsed to the floor as the miniature thunderclaps echoed through the forest. All was still, for a second, then the beast attempted to rise. Laktaq blew its knee off with a single bolter-round, and it lay still once again, red stains spreading through the snow around it, a gentle steam cooling in the air.

Laktaq approached, peering down at the body. No, this was not one of the mutant Non-Men. Judging from the creature's build and what he could tell of the head, this had once been a pack-creature of some sort, or maybe an elk. He was about to turn away from the corpse when he saw it twitch. Surely not-

The creature lunged.

In an instant, its fang-tipped tentacles were locked around Laktaq's forearm, like some kind of monstrous jaw. A weird, watery growl came from somewhere within the mass of feelers. Laktaq growled back as he attempted to free himself. The creature didn't seem to be in any danger of penetrating his armour, but its mucus-coated tentacles were difficult to get a grasp on. After a minute's frantic struggling, he changed tack. Heaving, he swung the creature through the air at a nearby tree. There was a snapping sound, and the grip on his arm was released. The creature slumped to the floor, its back twisted at an awkward angle.

His arm freed, Laktaq was not willing to leave it to chance. He raised his bolter and placed another three rounds into its chest. By the time the successive explosions had done their work, the creature's breast was a shredded memory decorating the blood-splattered ground. There.

A sound tore at his attentions: bolter fire, to his rear. He raced off the way he had come, weaving through the trees at a breakneck pace. Sergeant Dabaan, it must be. What had happened to require the Sergeant to draw his weapons?

He came upon the scene in an instant. His instructor was standing nonchalantly by a tree-trunk, six or seven Non-Men corpses scattered around him, one of them still steaming from the gaping wound in its chest.

"There is no cause for alarm," Dabaan voxed as Laktaq stood there wordlessly. "I am more than capable of remaining unharmed. I shall, however, be remaining closer to you, to better observe you in these... closer conditions."

"U-Understood, sir." Laktaq replied, still computing what had happened. It looked as if the Non-Men had simply tried to rush the Sergeant, from roughly the same direction he had come.

"You should return to your task, lad," the Sergeant said, ending the short exchange.

Laktaq nodded, and turned back the way he had come. If he could discover-

A blur of albino fur swept him off his feet, and he felt impacts ringing off his armour. Two Non-Men sat astride him, slavering and gibbering as they swung wild blows at him. Shock was not something that could slow a Marine, but as Laktaq surged upward, he puzzled out what had happened. Dabaan must have seen the creatures sneaking up on him – the last of the group that had attacked him, no doubt – and simply not mentioned it. Non-interference meant non-interference, it seemed. The two mutants fell off him, their weight insufficient to contain his enhanced strength. As they tumbled, he grasped one of the creatures by its shoulder and ploughed his fist into its face. Pieces of skull scattered everywhere. With a roar of hatred, Laktaq drew his chainsword and quickly bisected the second surprised mutant as it righted itself, the torso and head collapsing to lie beneath its lower half.

Quickly checking that no more foes remained, he turned to Dabaan. The Marine Sergeant stood there impassively, his silvered Ork skulls dangling against his leg. A slight pause later, Laktaq inclined his head once more and turned away. As he set off into the forest, he heard the Sergeant's heavy footsteps follow.

It was but an hour later that Laktaq found the Non-Men. His plan, such as it was, had been to hunt them down as he could – they appeared to travel in hunting packs of ten or so, or so he had thought.

He gazed out at them from his position, partially concealed behind a tree trunk. It wasn't exactly a seething throng, but there was a sizeable crowd of the beasts out there. He performed a quick headcount. Forty or so, he would say. More than he'd seen yet, which was unusual in itself. But their numbers weren't the biggest point of interest out there.

No, that prize was one that went to the... thing... in the centre of the crowd of mutants. He was at a loss to describe it in terms of anything natural. A mass of gently writhing tentacles surrounded some indistinct form, a few raised features jutting out from within. One such feature – it looked to be some kind of motionless limb, but Laktaq could not be sure – jutted out above the mass, ending in a clawlike appendage which was clasped around a chunk of metallic rock. Was this a fragment of the fallen star?

Given the behaviour of the Non-Men around it, that seemed somewhat likely. From the way they were prostrating themselves before it, it seemed that the pulsating mound of flesh was more like some kind of biological altar than a living being. In fact, as he watched, a group of Non-Men scuttling close to the ground seemed to be offering up a sacrifice to the odd being. Glistening tendrils reached out to snatch what looked suspiciously like a human corpse from the mutants' arms, and they scuttled back to stand among the trees with the others. Laktaq watched carefully as the bloodied body was lifted high by the tendrils, and brought before the prominent claw-grasped rock. He was surprised to see the sacrifice's flesh begin to boil and bubble after a few seconds exposure, the dead creature's very skeleton twisting. He switched his helmet's optics to thermal imaging, and saw a wave of radiation washing from the rock. Devillry! This creature must be some kind of warp-spawned monstrosity!

As the tendrils began to tear the boiling meat apart, he turned to look at Dabaan, who was stood several feet back, motionless. A slight inclination of the Sergeant's helm told him that he too had seen the monster. A flickering light reflecting off the Sergeant's silver armour caused Laktaq to turn back. The creature was now holding its radioactive rock over piles of dead wood brought forward by the gibbering Non-Men, who continued to bow before it. As the rock was brought to bear, each woodpile would burst into flames, provoking renewed gibbering from the mutants nearby.

Right. He had seen enough.

He checked his bolter and stepped out from behind the tree. With a quiet word to the Emperor to see him through, he squeezed the trigger and began stitching bolter fire into the massed Non-Men. It was not beyond belief that these specimens represented all the mutations yet loose on Varsavia. If so, he would deal with them now.

As confusion struck the primitive mutants' camp, Laktaq swung his fire around, herding them together in one of the classic Pincer firing patterns. They fled like beasts into his trap, or else died in the hail of explosive death. When he had them milling around in the centre, he sprayed them with the rest of his magazine. Emperor alone knew how many were torn apart in that maelstrom. Then they were broken, and fleeing or charging towards him.

Casting aside his bolter, Laktaq drew his chainsword and let it hum in front of him. Leaping albino shapes were cut from the air; behind him, he heard a second humming sound as some of the creatures unwisely sought to attack Dabaan. He didn't look back this time. No, his attention was focussed on the altar-like beast in the centre of the camp. It was that which he was slowly making his way toward. To be sure, it was no Non-Man, but it was a mutation, and unless he guessed incorrectly, it was what had been driving the mutations out to hunt: demanding worship and sustenance in return for the life-giving fire it commanded.

In fact, that was not its only gift. The tendrils that surrounded it reached out to grasp first one nearby tree, then another. With a surreal ease, the tender-looking appendages lifted the beast from the ground, revealing a dangerous-looking stinger slung underneath the creature's body, poised like an upturned scorpion.

Laktaq narrowed his eyes and moved towards the beast through the ever-thinning herd of mutants. But he was surprised to see that it did not merely wait for him. With a grace that belied its apparent bulk, it began to swing between the upright tree-trunks that made up the forest, swishing and spinning like some vile performer. Laktaq attempted to block its path, but it simply passed overhead, shifting higher along the strutlike trunks that supported it and stabbing downward with its stinger with a blow which Laktaq barely avoided. He elbowed a Non-Man into a tree and glared up at the mutant, squatting above him like a spider.

Jab.

He dodged, giving ground. He needed time to think of a way to tackle this beast. Could he hit it with a bolter-round? It swung through the trees after him, apparently encouraged by his retreat. He leapt aside as the next plunge of the stinger came. His armour's sensors warned of radiation spikes.

Moving backward, he drew his bolt-pistol from his belt. The beast was attempting to fry him with its radioactive token, it seemed. He'd see about that. He had been the best in his squad with a sidearm. He took careful aim as the beast swung into the new avenue of trees. If the thing had had eyes then they would have just've managed to focus on him as he fired. There was the normal bolter-retort, then a second explosion: a wooshing sound, and massive flare in the background radiation level. The creature screeched.

Against an intelligent opponent, Laktaq might have given rise to a taunt at this stage. But he had no idea if this thing was intelligent or not, and he was being assessed, after all. So instead he just brandished his chainsword and bolt-pistol like an Assault Marine and moved forward to engage the beast.

After a furious exchange where he received several blows from the writhing tendrils and lopped the tips off a few more, he realised that the creature was far from beaten. If anything, it seemed enraged. The jabbing stinger caused him to fall back once more, and he felt himself collide with something.

"Watch it!"

It was Dabaan.

The creature screeched once more, and jabbed. Laktaq rolled aside. There was a clang. He stood up and was momentarily horrified to see the beast's stinger lodged deep in the Sergeant's breastplate. But then reality reasserted itself. The Sergeant seemed simply to be mildly bemused by the attack – it had not penetrated his suit's outer shell. Laktaq saw an opportunity, and as the creature struggled to release its main weapon, he swung downwards with his chainsword in a wild sweep. The weapon bit deep, and as he applied pressure it slowly sawed through the tough material that made up the mutant's stinger. It screeched in pain and protest, but the feeble lashings that its tendrils delivered to his helm were not enough to distract him from his purpose.

As he separated the beast from Dabaan, he brought his bolt-pistol around. One shot blew off the tendrils that bound it to one of the trees. It collapsed to the ground like a ball of writhing worms, spilling black ichor from its severed stinger. Slinging his chainsword, Laktaq stepped back and raised his bolt pistol in both hands. He didn't stop firing until the beast was a silent stain on the dark carpet of the forest.

"Well," came Dabaan's voice over the voice, as the Sergeant stepped forward, working the mutant stinger from his breastplate. "I believe that qualifies as a trial passed, Brother Laktaq. Welcome to the Third"


	5. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

"_Heed well the warnings of your elders._

_They have already made your mistakes."_

-An Ilvenki joke

Silver giants paced through the barren forest, bolters slung low as they engaged in idle chatter over their private vox-links. Laktaq watched them from where he stood by the Thunderhawk, feeling somewhat lightheaded now that the rush of combat was over. In front of him, the rest of Squad Dabaan appeared to be looking for something, although what they hoped to find exactly was beyond him.

"They are admiring your handiwork," voxed Dabaan, once again demonstrating his unnerving ability to read Laktaq's thoughts. How did he do that? Laktaq was fairly sure he had remained pretty much motionless, and it wasn't as if the Sergeant could read facial expressions through his helmet, was it?

The Squad Sergeant paced to stand beside him, leaving his squad to their observations.

"You appear to have impressed them, Brother Laktaq. Although Brother Wehten has identified several patterns of attack that he believe would have been better-advised, and Brother Brukha has caught sight of one of the mutations that managed to evade you."

That last bit made Laktaq snap to attention.

"Permission to speak, sir?" he asked.

There was a silent moment as Dabaan looked at him.

"You are a full battle-brother of our Chapter, Brother Laktaq. You have been since you took your skull on Tarentus, and the 10th earmarked you for progression. The Chapter has not lost track of this record. Now that you have proved yourself to me and 3rd Company, you may speak when you wish. The tattoo is a formality the Cruor will see to when we return to the monastery, nothing more."

Laktaq nodded in response. That was good to hear.

"Sir, if some of the beasts still survive, is not my task unfinished?" he asked, though in truth he did not relish the prospect of weeks longer spent tracking the scattered abominations.

"No, lad. The petition called for deliverance, not extermination. That... _thing_ seemed to be the heart of the trouble. Without it, and with what must be the majority of the mutations dead, I don't believe the Ilvenki tribes shall suffer from the beasts overmuch." The Sergeant ran his gauntlet over the scar in his armour. "The survivors will most likely be dead within a few winters. There are far deadlier beings than they on Varsavia, as they will soon discover."

That was a relief. Laktaq turned and looked back into the forest, allowing his triumph to truly settle in. It was odd. All through his initiation and training, he had been pushed to extremes so ridiculous that his mind had blotted half of them out. He had learnt his litanies to steel his mind, trained his muscles to the point where with a single thought he could set in motion a blistering assault. For years now, he had been more than any simple man could be.

And yet it was only now that he truly felt like the engine of destruction that he was. He was no longer a Scout, unsure and clad in carapace armour. He was a Space Marine. He had triumphed over great adversity, and proved himself worth Emperor alone knew how many of the subhumans that had dared present themselves on Varsavia's blessed soil. In the eyes of mere men he was invincible, or so close that it came to a fine reckoning. He was one of the Silver Skulls, the Emperor's own divine tools. He had torn down even the most monstrous of mutations...

"Sir," he spoke, relishing the freedom of it. "That thing... what-"

"I am not sure," Dabaan said, cutting him off before he could even ask the question. "It does not match up with aught I have seen before, lad. Even the locust have not yet produced a creature of that shape."

"I did consider them, sir," Laktaq replied, "but actually, I was wondering where it might have come from. The meteor that landed here could not have delivered such a beast alive, surely?"

"Doubt not the ingenuity of mankind's foes," Dabaan intoned, almost as a caution. "But perhaps you are right, lad. Perhaps it itself did not arrive from the void. Think on it. I am sure that you have realised by now that the Non-Men were once men, aye?"

"Aye, sir," replied Laktaq, considering the Sergeant's line of thought. "You mean to say that that _thing_ was already here? On Varsavia?"

The Sergeant's shoulder-pads shifted briefly.

"Mayhap," he responded. "The creature was wrapped so tightly around that irradiated rock, that it could have been anything, once."

"But we'll never know, eh?" came a voice. Laktaq watched with some awe as the man who had spoke approached, flanked by another unhelmeted figure. His face was wrinkled and thin, and grey hair fell awkwardly around it. His eyes were watery, almost glazed, and he hobbled in a manner unbefitting any healthy Astartes. Yet he was the greatest of the surprises to have stepped out of the Thunderhawk from the monastery, and his presence was something that Laktaq had simply not expected at all.

Chief-Prognosticator Altai smiled a toothy grin as he drew closer.

"Splatted it good and proper, eh, recruit?" he said. "Showed Tornarsuk's gloomy rattlings what for!"

"I am not certain that the mutation Brother Laktaq destroyed was what my vision alluded to, Altai," interjected the second greatest surprise of the day. Prognosticator Tornarsuk walked a little behind his superior, and looked somewhat less cheerful than him. Despite the fact that he was irrefutably blind – empty, blackened sockets staring openly from his face – and looked to be no youth himself, Prognosticator Tornarsuk looked a lot steadier on his feet than Altai. He walked with an odd precision, one foot in front of the next as he came to stand beside the Master of Oracles. In one hand, he held a small object, swaddled in cloth. He seemed loathe to keep it close to him.

"Oh, don't be raining on his parade, Tornarsuk." rebutted Altai, waving his hand at 3rd Company's Oracle. "There's nothing else out here that could've posed the threat you saw to the Chapter, and the boy took care of it by himself." He winked at Laktaq. "Pish and tush, I say. Well done, lad."

Laktaq bowed.

"Thank you, Sir."

As a matter of fact, he was beginning to question whether he really had dealt with the beast alone. He cast an eye over to Sergeant Dabaan, who was looking on patiently. He kept replaying the scene in his head, but each time it turned out the same. He had backed away from the creature and bumped into the Sergeant, but when he turned around after the beast struck, Dabaan had been facing forward. The scar in his breastplate was evidence enough of that. There had been no time inbetween him bumping into the Sergeant and the creature striking for Dabaan to have turned around. Which meant that the Sergeant had been facing forward the whole time, and had seen him and the creature coming. Now it was possible, perhaps, that the Sergeant had simply not reacted fast enough to get away from the strike. But it seemed unlikely, given the Sergeant's experience and obvious capability, that Laktaq could avoid a blow that the Sergeant could not. Which led him to wonder why the Sergeant had not moved...

Dabaan shifted, attracting Altai's gaze away from Laktaq.

"Did you discover that which intrigued you, Chief Prognosticator?" he asked, his tone at a perfectly modelled level of politeness.

Altai wrinkled his nose in delight.

"Oh, the standing trees! Yes, I puzzled it out, Sergeant. The meteor Tornarsuk saw must've exploded in mid-air, 'superheated' or some such by the effort of entry. The force of the explosion was straight down for those trees inside the central zone, so their limbs were stripped, but they were left standing! A fascinating little oddity, but not one I haven't seen before, Sergeant."

He turned to Tornarsuk and gestured for the package he held. The blind Oracle handed it over reluctantly.

"However," Altai continued enthusiastically, unwrapping the cloth. "I did find this little token of interest by the body of that beast our Brother Laktaq so valiantly vanquished!" He produced a sizeable chunk of the metallic rock that the creature's claw like limb had been wrapped around. It seemed to almost smoulder in the sunlight.

"Highly radioactive of course," he admitted, wrapping it up again. "But it should make a potent addition to my divination brew!"

On his own, Laktaq would never have thought to question the Chief-Prognosticator's word on the matter. But the look on Prognosticator Tornarsuk's face as Altai spoke brought back memories of a half-heard rumour from his time in the Pincers.

"Sir," he voxed quietly to Dabaan, as the two Oracles made their way past into the Thunderhawk. "Is-"

"I know what you are thinking, Brother Laktaq," the Sergeant said, "and believe me, I can share your sense of concern. But Chief-Prognosticator Altai is one of the most gifted seers ever to have graced the Chapter. If anyone knows what they are doing, it is him."

"Understood sir."

A moment passed.

"What now, sir?" asked Laktaq.

"When the squad pull themselves together and regroup, we shall return to the monastery. You can make your way to the Cruor once we're there. I will be returning here tomorrow, with some serfs, to begin clearing the trees."

"Why?"

Dabaan waved at the treeline.

"This is the 'land of skeletal spines' that the Ilvenki fear holds a host of daemons." he replied. "They called for the Skull-Warriors to do battle with the daemons. It is only fitting that we demonstrate our victory, 'Skull-Warrior' Laktaq. When the Ilvenki next travel here, they will find only a ruin."

Laktaq stared at the barren trees, and tried to imagine the Ilvenki returning, to find the entire grave forest levelled, the strewn corpses of their 'Non-Men' buried beneath the snow.

Inside his helmet, he smiled.


End file.
